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Spanking Theatre

Spanking stories for the theatre between your ears

Month

December 2019

Oubliette

spankingtheatre:

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And then she announced:

“… the next item on the menu… will be bare licked cunt…”

She let her words hang in the air, where they seemed to charge the atmosphere between us like a tiny erotic thunderstorm.

In the vast treasure trove of my memories, that one moment blazes with an exceptional clarity. Somehow perfectly preserved, infinitely replayable.

Yet behind every memory is a story, a winding path of strange happenstance and improbable events that stretch back into the hazy mist of every experience. Stories lie submerged like icebergs, their brilliant summits glowing as vivid snapshots, their intricate genesis hidden, lost deep beneath our minds’ turbulent waves.

What could be more human than forgetting? We are not machines or paintings or books. We are biochemical repositories of circumstance, whose subtle complexities of existence are readily outshone by visceral moments of dazzling pleasure.

Yet, it is our stories that define us. Not those seductive, emotion-charged glimpses that we can summon on demand to burst like gratifying fireworks in our minds. Our stories are always there, lurking unbidden, the true substrate of our being.

Perhaps we were never meant to probe too deep, to pull on the loose threads of our memories, to let them unravel. Who knows what unexplored paths exist in the Minotaur’s maze? Perhaps they really are best left alone, unvisited and forgotten. Who knows where those passages might have led…


To those that enjoy dining well, there is one establishment whose reputation exceeds all others. One whose name is spoken with hushed reverence.

It is La Oubliette.

The Forgotten Place.

It holds no official awards, and appears in no guidebooks. No one can even say for certain where it really is, let alone how to make a booking. It is as if the outside world had indeed forgotten its existence, to become a closely guarded secret known only to an elite cognoscenti.

Some mock it as an in-joke, some dismiss it as a preposterous myth. Yet if it exists, it is a destination of intimidating exclusivity. No bribe, no level of celebrity will secure you a table there. Some say all guests must be personally invited. I know prominent individuals who had lived and died waiting for a coveted invitation, which never came.

Life had been kind to me, but I am neither rich or famous. Yet one morning last year, completely out of the blue, I received a powder-blue envelope in the mail. It looked expensive and classy, crisp artisanal paper, my address elegantly handwritten. And when I opened it, I was staggered to realise it was a message purporting to be from the famed Chez Oubliette. Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, they had sent me an invitation.

The single page missive stated that a table had been booked for me, and me alone, on the 28th of December. This date was not negotiable, if I wanted to accept, I would be met somewhere in Geneva by a member of La Oubliette’s staff. If I declined, the message politely assured me, I would never hear from them again. There was also an ominous warning: not to tell anyone else I’d received an invitation, or it would be immediately withdrawn.

The date they’d offered was intriguingly bizarre, just after Christmas. A time when most folk were still on holiday. Perhaps it was a quiet period, between two festivities. But I had no say in the matter, my only choice being to accept or decline. At stake was only a dinner, but something told me if I said no, I’d regret it for the rest of my days. Within the hour I emailed the one-time RSVP address, confirming my acceptance.

My rendezvous instructions arrived the following week. Soon after, I booked my plane ticket with quivering hands. But what exactly was I getting into?

The restaurant’s name suggested a place that wanted to be forgotten, but there was also another, more sinister and disturbing meaning. An oubliette is the term for hidden dungeon cell. Typically one with a concealed entrance, like a trapdoor in the ceiling. One difficult to find, and impossible to escape from. A place where people could be made to disappear, somewhere they could be permanently forgotten…

Keep reading

At the end of a turbulent decade, on the brink of a brand new one…

What better story to choose for the next entry in the retrospective than Oubliette.

This is an appropriate tale for this time of year. A story about looking back on cherished memories and regrets of roads not taken. Yet this story is also about the future. How everything can change in an instant, through unexpected invitations, and new connections.

Oubliette is a story is a story of how the past influences our futures, how the echo of events can propagate across even billions of years of time. But it’s also a story of the beautiful serendipity of our own short lifetimes, and the transformative magic of love and lust.

Oubliette is one of my more philosophical stories. Look closer and you may see many meanings embedded within its delightfully explicit paragraphs.

So as a new decade dawns, I wish you all a road ahead that it is deeply fulfilling. Even if sometimes you might need to go on an adventure to find it.

Each of us is the latest chapter in a rolling story billions of years in the making. There’s not many collections of molecules in this universe with the capacity to dream and love. You are one of them.

Make your own unique epic story memorably wonderful.

Wishing every reader a fantastic new year!

We all know truants are caned. How about truant prefects, who are supposed to be good examples to their peers?

Prefects who betray their responsibilities and break the school rules they should be upholding would be caned in public in front of their peers.

First, her prefect badge would be ritually unpinned from her uniform.

Then, she would address her classmates, apologising for her indiscretion and acknowledging that righteousness of her punishment. She would unbutton her skirt, handing it over to the Head Teacher as a symbol of her contrition.

Then she would turn away from the dozens of staring eyes, each widened in anticipation, and bend over to touch her toes.

The Head Teacher would then pull her panties right down to her ankles, to the sound of stifled gasps.

The cane would be placed against her bare bottom, rubbing and then stroking, increasing her awareness of where the first stroke will land. Tapping between her legs to widen her stance and reveal a bit more of her tingling lips.

And then the cane would rise, and swish, and fall.

Those assembled barely breathing, until justice is served…

The Caning Emporium

spankingtheatre:

A story about imagining

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In the dark castle of your imagination are many rooms

You could spend a lifetime roaming its stark alluring corridors

Peeping through the keyholes

To be aroused and thrilled

By sights unseen


* * 1 * *

The opening door silenced the hubbub of two dozen voices. One of the idiosyncrises of their teacher, Mr Bowman, was he often arrived in class a couple of minutes late. As his new class would soon discover, he had a taste for theatrical flourishes, a penchant for engineering drama and building anticipation. As if the whole class was itself entering a story that had already started.

Even his clothes had the air of a showman. Today he’d dressed in a black thigh-length Edwardian frock coat. A snow white cravat bulging out from his iridescent blue silk waistcoat. He removed his tall top hat as he stepped into the classroom, doffing it respectfully to the young ladies present.

Mr Bowman’s class was incredibly popular. Always oversubscribed, it was one of only two classes in the school to have a waiting list. Preference was given to students with a strong academic record, as this was not a subject for the indolent or immature, but for grown-up minds who wanted to push their boundaries. A class of the school’s best and brightest. He entered the room to a buzz of expectation, to survey a sea of wide and eager eyes.

After all, who wouldn’t want to be able to write? To communicate, to reach out to and inspire and arouse their imaginations of strangers they’d never met. To be able to harness the most powerful creative force in the known universe, the one that covertly lurked between their own two ears.

He paused before the class, his eyes roaming his audience’s faces, nodding, as if in agreement with whatever they were silently thinking. He could sense their curiosity, the murmur of prolific potential straining to be unleashed.

Mr Bowman could feel himself being charged up by their enthusiasm, pulling off his frock coat and melodramatically flinging it over the hook of the nearby coat stand, before striding up to the blackboard. The chalk squeaked and scratched as he wrote two short words in neat block capitals.

“Erotic Writing”, he began, regarding what he’d written for a moment before turning back to face the class.

This was no ordinary creative writing class. His pupils were not silly little girls, but young ladies, each now keenly aware of their own simmering sexuality. The enlightened board of governors believed this course would help them express the powerful feelings that often surged through their febrile minds, and the pyretic urges that now surged through their burgeoning bodies.

Mr Bowman let the class stare at what he’d written for a moment. He wondered how many were fixated on just the first word, and what visions those six little letters had already conjured in their minds. He waited, then broke the silence.

“On our journey through life, each of you will write a veritable library of words. Instructions, memories, descriptions and proposals. Words of joy, expressions of sorrow, words of apology and gratitude. In your years at this school each of you has learnt how to write essays, poems and reports, the art of expressing the ideas within your head. Yet…”

“Hands up. Who’s ever imagined a scene of a sexual nature?”

A murmur of suppressed gasps swept the room. From his vantage point at the front of the class the variation in sexual confidence within his class was obvious, but unsurprising. There were the girls with their jaws open, taken aback by the bluntness of his question. Others were looking around furtively, waiting to see if anyone else had put their hand up…

Keep reading

Next in my retrospective of past stories is The Caning Emporium. This is a meta-story, a story about the process of writing spanking stories. It also features a scene with erotic writing class, which is an activity I’m keen to tutor and encourage in the new role-playing chat group.

If you’ve ever wondered about the process of erotic story-writing, the deep alluring mystery of sexual fantasies, or even just dreamt of buying your own cane, I think you’d enjoy your visit to The Caning Emporium

Do you ever message naughty girls privately who need spanking advice?

Private messages are a much better medium for ensuring naughty girls get the discipline they need.

And I’m always happy to help those who knock on my study door.

Daddy Christmas

Daddy Christmas is coming soon

Red coat, black boots and wooden spoon

At the foot of my bed I’ve left his treats

A drink, a carrot and some sweets

A carved finger of ginger also exists

Just in case I’m on his naughty list

But Daddy Christmas, I’ve been so good!

And done everything a good girl should

Between my legs I’m smooth and bare

You can inspect me on the spanking chair

Oh Daddy Christmas please!

Warm my bum against the winter chill

Let me feel that tingly visceral thrill

Of your firm hand across my cheeks

I only wish it lasted weeks

Spank me under the twinkling lights

I so wish you’d visit every night

Spank my bare bottom until I glow

I need this like you’ll never know

Goodness! 

Daddy Christmas! 

Here so soon!

Standing in my own bedroom!

You’ve caught me with my fingers wet!

Yes I know what naughty girls must get

Oh Daddy Christmas

Please make my naughty bottom red

I kneel face down upon my bed

Bare bottom raised with legs well spread

Salacious thoughts buzzing through my head

A wooden spoon against my bum

My festive fun has just begun

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@spankingtheatre 2019

Wishing you all love and every happiness!

What new ways can I make myself feel humiliated when I punish myself in private?

There’s more than a dozen ideas in this post:

https://spankingtheatre.tumblr.com/post/167710724430/ideas-for-humiliating-cornertime

Experiment and discover what you find most humiliating.

It might be sitting on the toilet and wetting your panties.

It might be the shame of wearing punishment panties.

It might be forcing yourself to go out in public just after a spanking, whilst your bottom is still hot, stinging and sore, and your slit is sticky and soaking wet. Your cheeks will blush as you interact with strangers, as you wonder whether they suspect your shameful secret, the spanked pink bottom hidden just beneath your clothes.

Or it might just be the shame of accountability, sitting on your spanked bottom, having to send a message to your disciplinarian describing how and why you’ve just been punished…

What’s a good alternative to the panty pulling chair that gives the same/similar end results?

The desired outcome of panty-pulling is a sore pink stripe, which depends on two factors, the force applied to pull the panties between the legs, and the length of time the friction is experienced. 

To maximise the force applied, you can tie your panties to any strong fixture, and use your own weight to do the pulling. Good fixtures are bedframes, the handles of chests of drawers, or door or window grills. The following posts should give you some ideas:

Depending on your waist height, and the height of where you attach your panties, you can stand, sit or kneel as appropriate.

Standing is described in the story Punishment Panties, where Alice and Penny stand on tiptoes as their panties are tied to their beds.

Sitting is described in The Sit Down Dance, and the eponymous naughty game post.

Kneeling also works well for lower-height fixtures, such as drawer handles. Here you’ll be able to control the friction you feel between your legs by sinking lower towards the floor.

An alternative, which doesn’t require any attachment, and which can be done discreetly beneath your clothes, is to just pull your panties up tight until you feel The Pinch. And then keep them tight throughout the day, so they intrude between your lips and rub against your bottom hole.

Here as the rubbing is done over an extended period of time, you don’t need to apply as much force to get a satisfyingly sore stripe.

This approach can be particularly effective when you have a disciplinarian to report to. They can send you somewhere private every now and then to verify your panties are indeed pulled tight enough. And if they’re not physically present, pictures can be sent to provide proof. In the course of the day, it’s not uncommon for such messages to be accompanied by pleas for mercy, to be released from her exquisite torment…

Sandalwood and Ginger

spankingtheatre:

A spanking story, for Christmas

Do you know what it’s like to be spanked in public?

You might think the bystanders would interrupt, outraged at the indecency.
But they don’t.
They stay.
They lurk.
And they watch.

They are mesmerised by my nudity, their gaze ensnared by the curves of my cheeks, fascinated by the bright pink patches that suddenly appear.
They are captivated by the sound, that slow one-handed clap, that erotic rhythm, underlaid by my plaintive little moans. Because the sound of a bottom smacking is unique, and as seductive as a siren’s song.

I know this because I’ve been spanked in public countless times. In library aisles. In gloomy bars. On golden beaches. On garden lawns and under trees in parks. Often on the bare, always in front of disbelieving eyes.
But you never forget your first time.

Ah, now you’re curious, aren’t you?
Are you imagining me?
Bending over and exposed, about to get what naughty girls deserve.
Say it with me, under your breath.
I deserve a good spanking.
It feels good, doesn’t it?
I deserve a long, hard spanking.
Say it like you mean it.
And I’ll tell you my story…

Keep reading

A seasonal story, to get you in the mood…

I got caught skipping school and need a very severe spanking.how long and hard should it be

Truants are caned.

Bent over.

Skirt lifted.

Legs parted.

Panties pulled right down.

At least a dozen pink stripes.

And corner time with shame displayed.

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